


Home

by Ragga



Series: Steter Week 2k17 [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Creature Fic, M/M, Scarred Peter, Selkies, Steter Week 2017
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2019-02-07 13:10:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12841866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragga/pseuds/Ragga
Summary: Don't be like him, they would say, and then add,or else you get burned.Unable to bear the whispers any longer, This One left. He forsook those who forsook him, left him bear his scars alone, the scars he bore for his herd. It was better to be alone, stay off the currents, than swim with those most undeserving of his loyalty. So mote it be.That is, until he metThat One.





	Home

**Author's Note:**

> Day 4! Mythology, etc. AU! This is my personal favourite of all of my Steter Week fics. I hope you like it as much as I do :')

Never trust the surfacers.

This was the truth and law that This One and his kind lived. Under the waves they were safe, above at the ground they were vulnerable to those who would seek them harm. Live with caution, never stray from the pod. Follow the waves, they lead you safe in your journey.

This One was the living proof of that, the cautionary tale for the youngsters who treaded lightly around him and pointed at him behind his back. Whispers followed him around, suspicions and warnings in his shadow.

 _Don’t be like him_ , they would say, and then add, _or else you get burned_.

Literally in his case.

It was not even his fault his hide was scarred, half burnt off. No, the credit went to his useless nephew, the son of their pod mistress, This One’s sister. He had gone to the surface, fallen in love with the promises of a witch of a woman, bewitched by the hair so golden in the sunlight. He had let himself be turned into a two-legs and his soul be stolen. She had taken him away, kept him as a pet, tying him to a life akin to torture – hiding him from himself and their pod.

But not from This One.

This One had always been the tracker of the pod. Whereas the others relied on the waves and currents to guide them, This One didn’t leave anything to the whims of fate – perhaps the reason why he clashed so often with his sister. This time though it saved her son which she was grateful about, her tears having proved her debt. Yet, everything had consequences, even the good acts.

The woman of silver had burned her house down, going down with it herself, cackling in the middle of the flames while holding the life of his nephew in her hands. Unable to see his nephew die, This One had run forward, battled with the witch of a woman, and returned victoriously but only after gaining deep wounds that not even the ocean could wash away.

His sister had been forever grateful indeed. That did not stop her from shielding her son from the rightful shame he should – and did – shoulder while This One was left to suffer the side-eyes and tales spreading like wild fire alone.

It was not long before This One grew resentful. His nephew was seemingly ungrateful, shutting out everyone and everything, brooding until he was almost washed away by the waters. His nieces were only interested in playing with the fish or tag with the enamoured young ones interested only in breeding and rise in status. His sister was tightening her grip of the pod while unable to show respect to This One who was the most deserving of it.

And the whispers. The little bubbles of lies and deceit. Nay, ‘twas not the Mistress’ son, ‘twas the brother, shame, shame! Look what the surface does to our kind, shame!

Never be like him, never be like the brother-

This One could not take it longer. After another row, countless in the grand scheme of things, This One had growled one last time and turned his back to the ones least deserving of his loyalty. They would not find kindness from him, no, he would take his strength and cunning elsewhere and would gladly watch them all fall apart like the pods were never supposed to do.

This One’s sister was sure This One would come back before the currents would take them away, ashamed and regretful of the highest degree.

This One would not give her the satisfaction.

This One did not know for how long he swam. Off the currents he went, sea witches he befriended, challenges he faced and won and reputation he gained, and rumours he heard of how his pod, once high and mighty as them all, faced hardship after hardship, remaining together by barely a thread. This One’s heart was stone, however. They were no longer his concern.

They forsook him so he forsook them.

So mote it be.

The whispers followed him though wherever he went. The scars, some still red as the flames from that day, were telling but not the right stories. The matter just was that no matter who he spoke to, no one would believe him. They would nod and offer him shelter, fish, and then when he would turn his back he would again hear the hushed words:

_Shame, shame, shame!_

Hardened and scorned, he found himself upon the same shores he had once walked in search of his nephew. The currents were cold and it would take many turns before they would call upon his pod again. This One was glad for that.

Once upon a time This One had been as fascinated by the surface as his nephew had been. Once upon a time he thought himself the brave explorer and walked the shores with two legs and wind at his back. Once upon a time This One had a future.

All stolen by a deed too kind, his life cut short for-

This One shook himself from his thoughts, the longing for the days of innocence, and watched the beckoning sands. It was deceitfully peaceful sight. Pale gold in the light of the moon, surrounded by rocks high as trees This One had seen in a place far from there. The waves were gentle around him, brushing against him unlike the touches he had not felt for turns and turns.

This One shivered but not from cold. He felt like the moon, high and alone in the vast space.

He was about to leave this accursed place behind but he heard a sound. It was almost whisper quiet in the wind, drawing This One’s attention with its sorrows. He swam closer, risking exposure but uncaring – it was not as if he had anything to be afraid of, alone as he was.

There stood a two-legs, a human, leaning against a rock taller than he and watering the ocean with his tears. He was gasping almost as if out of breath and perhaps he was.

This One knew the taste of those waters far too well.

He did not move closer and just watched as the human stood, sat, lied in the waters until the shores were lit in the glow of the colours most bright. And even then it was clear that he was most reluctant to leave.

Oh, leave he did.

But back he came.

This One would watch as the human returned night after night, always reeking of grief and loneliness. Turn after turn he would arrive and This One would not leave. There was something holding him there, rooted, bewitched.

And one morning, This One followed.

Unbeknownst to That One, This One walked behind him and found himself at a place with shelters much like the one This One was burnt in, close to the place as well. He could still smell the smoke if he tried, see the ashes in the air.

Unfair.

He stole garments off where humans had left them for the night, perhaps to dry, these foolish two-legs afraid of a little water. He blended in, head held high, and he watched as That One returned to a shelter where he could see him living alone, where the only permanence, only sign of life, was of him. There were visitors from what This One could see, but not many. A woman with hair that reminded This One too much of fire for him to be comfortable with, a man with hair golden as that of the witch of a woman but shorter and curling at the ends.

Yet they did not stay and if they did it was never for a night.

The waters were calling This One and he turned to return. He offered one last look at the shelter only to see eyes like amber watching him move, squinted in thought. This One held a hand high as he had many a times seen humans do and, although clearly startled, That One returned the gesture.

This One left.

And did not return.

***

Turns later, This One was back at the shores. He could not explain why but he was. Was he truly bewitched, perhaps? But no, no one had chained him to anything. He was free as ever, to swim, to live, to search the depths of the world for treasures and secrets as he pleased-

Free to return.

He walked up the shore to the spot he had hidden his garments – had he even back then anticipated he would come back? – and left to explore. It took him only a few steps to see a shape on a nearby hill, between the trees, that was not there the last time he had glanced upon the sight.

The shape of an unfinished shelter.

This One watched as a figure rose from the middle of it, brushing off the sweat on his forehead, dirtier than This One had ever seen anyone being. That One had a determined look in his eyes as he lifted a piece of wood higher and, from what it looked, heavier than he.

This One found himself there, helping That One lift it to the place it belonged to. In surprise though the piece fell to the floor when That One startled and their eyes met like that time once before. Without words, This One crouched and lifted the other side of the piece of wood. For a moment no one moved, it felt almost like the world has ceased to exist, but it only took that short, lingering moment and then That One was again lifting and by the time the darkness arrived This One was as dirty as That One.

That One offered him a place to sleep.

This One accepted.

“My name is Stiles,” That One told him as they were walking back to the cluster of shelters – the town, as That- Stiles told him. This One pondered, tasted, willed the sounds past the lips that had never pronounced what was his, what embodied his whole being, everything he was.

“This One was named Petyrieaelahan.”

The waters, the storm, the wildness.

The indomitable will of nature.

The ocean had named him well.

“Pet-” Stiles blinked and then laughed. It was one of those full body laughs This One had never seen before; they had always been simpers or merely coy, never a true hearty laugh, embodying the sun and the stars.

“I will call you Peter. It is a nickname, like mine is. My full name is Mieczysław.”

The sword of glory.

The danger, the doom that calls, like it was calling him.

This strange temptation that he was.

“Mieczysław,” This One – Peter? – tasted the words and found them… satisfactory. He had been aptly named as well. Stiles groaned next to him.

“How did you manage to say it so perfectly?” That One complained. This One shrugged, his lips twitching involuntarily.

“Smug bastard,” Stiles mumbled but unlike his pod, it was not said with malicious intent. Peter hummed and watched the moon rise.

It was a beautiful night.

He rested in the cot made for him, his heart and soul clutched close to him, hidden beneath the garments so none of it could be seen by those unworthy.

Peter was gone before the sky was lit again.

***

“I have been practicing,” Stiles told This One – Peter, when on two-legs he is Peter – when they sat by the shore, the shelter – house – ready. It had not been complete for long but Peter had still missed almost the whole process. He had only come back – back, he was back again, something in him driving him crazy to return and to leave, never satisfied, always wanting – when the roof was to be finished.

Peter helped out. They slept in the town again, garnering looks from the other humans. The fiery woman was away but the curly-headed man was there, suspicious and melancholy.

( _We were enemies, rivals_ , Stiles told him when Isaac had left. _But then we buried the hatchet with our best friend. We are all we have left from him. Oh, what Scott would not do to see us now_.)

“Oh?” Peter hummed, watching the deep blue reflect in the amber gold. Stiles grinned impishly.

“Petyrieaelahan.”

Acknowledgement. A welcome most surprising.

Peter felt warm.

They walked into the newly-built house – home, Stiles called it – and Peter took Stiles to bed. He left his heart and soul by a nearby stool, proudly in view in a messy pile.

When Peter left the next morning, after painting the dots on Stiles’ body with marks that would take a while to fade, his heart and soul in tow, he could not help but marvel how it had been just where he had left it, untouched, the night before.

***

“You do not care about my scars,” Peter said. Stiles smiled, fingers pressing on the marring on his skin.

“They are a part of you,” Stiles answered, eyes bright and gentle.

They met in the middle and let the world stop for a single night.

***

He crossed his former pod when he was floating around, contemplating on a return to That One. His sister, the pod mistress, looked ragged and tired, just as the pod did.

“We need you,” she told him.

“And I needed you,” This One told her and swam off, ignoring his despondent nephew and nieces with little ones of their own.

***

“Why are you not keeping me?” Peter asked once when they were lying on the beach, watching the stars above while the villagers were dancing and celebrating something he cared nothing about. Stiles was curled around him, hand pressed against his chest, caressing the skin he found there.

“You are not for me to keep,” Stiles merely answered. He pressed his lips against Peter’s side, snuggling closer.

“Why are you not making me stay?” Peter insisted, lifting Stiles’ head until their eyes met. Warm amber met cold blue.

“Your place is where your place is.” The words were a whispered secret between them, and the water was offering temptations of its depths to Peter.

“You know what I am.”

“You are who you are.”

For once, he did not listen.

The doom, indeed.

 _His_ doom.

Peter covered them with his heart and soul, shielding them from the night breeze, creating a world for just the two of them.

***

 _You do not have a place to belong to_ , were the last words his sister said to him when he left them all behind once and for all. Once upon a time they might have created a furious inferno inside him. In another story, they might have built a freezing mountain in his guts. Yet, this time, it was not to be. She had no power over him, not now, not in this life – he was whole for the first time in his existence.

Peter and This One were one and the same. It meant that they, he, could not stay in one place for too long, the call of the waters too strong for him to stay on two legs for too long.

But now they both had a place to return, a place to call home.

Because sometimes doom did not mean the end of all things; nay, sometimes, just sometimes, it was a song for the new beginnings.

And when he arrived back to those familiar shores, when he answered the longing inside him, he could hang up his heart and soul unafraid, knowing it was in good hands.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd love to know your thoughts if you have the time to spare :)


End file.
